John de Wolfe had no quarrel with this state of affairs — in fact, it never crossed his mind. He was concerned with injustice, but if a man or woman had been sentenced to death in a legitimate court, then like almost every other man in the kingdom, he accepted that death was the proper remedy. His thoughts were on his own problems, not those of the condemned — how to manage the still-delicate relationship with Nesta and Matilda’s wrath when she became aware of it. The two latest murders nagged at his mind, with the knowledge that a warped killer was at large within the city.
As he loped along, Gwyn broke into his reveries. ‘What’s going on up there, then?’
De Wolfe lifted his head and saw a knot of people around a horseman, grouped at the edge of the road level with the gallows. Even at this distance, the angry gesticulations of the rider marked some extremely bad temper.
‘It’s the sheriff — and Ralph Morin and Gabriel,’ exclaimed the sharp-eyed Cornishman. ‘They seem to be arguing about the death cart.’
Alongside the group, with a few men-at-arms as escort, was an open wagon with large solid wheels, a patient ox between its shafts. Standing inside, their wrists bound to the front rail, were two men and a woman, their heads drooping in terminal hopelessness.
‘There should have been four this morning,’ bleated Thomas, who was almost running to keep up with them.
As they covered the last hundred paces, de Wolfe looked to his left at the hanging tree. It consisted of a massive beam twelve feet off the ground, supported at each end by stout posts buried in the earth. Today it indeed had four rope nooses dangling from it.
‘You’ll answer for this, you incompetent fools,’ de Revelle ranted, the objects of his rage being Osric, the constable, and another man who John recognised as one of the gaolers from the city prison in the towers of the South Gate.
‘Easy, Richard, you’ll give yourself apoplexy,’ he advised, as he came up to the sheriff’s big black horse. John looked across at Ralph Morin and Gabriel, the sergeant of the guard, but got only a deadpan look from the latter and a covert wink from Morin.
‘What’s the problem?’
The red-faced sheriff launched into a repetition of his tirade. ‘One of the felons has escaped, the very one I came to see dispatched! The fools — or, more likely, corrupt knaves — in the South Gate allowed him to vanish last night.’
‘Would that be de Vado, the one to whom you lost that land suit?’ asked John with straight-faced innocence.
De Revelle’s colour heightened even more and he glared around the faces of the other men, daring them to show even the vestige of a grin.
‘It was de Vado, yes. The man who was found with God knows how much stolen loot in his house.’
‘Prisoners vanish all the time,’ said de Wolfe, reasonably. ‘The city couldn’t afford to keep all of them in food for months on end, even if there was room in that stinking tower.’ He almost added that Richard had never shown any interest in escapees before, but thought it best not to inflame him even more. Many prisoners, especially those in the town gaol, never came to trial or execution, almost always because their relatives or friends bribed the gaolers to let them run for sanctuary in the nearest church or melt away into the countryside to become outlaws. Others just slipped away to another part of England or even abroad, until they could slink back to their homes unobserved.
It was only the sheriff’s chagrin at being done out of seeing Gocius de Vado perform the dance of death this morning, that had prompted his condemnation of gaol-breaking. He tried to include his men at the castle in the blame, but Ralph Morin was having none of it.
‘Nothing to do with us, sheriff,’ he snapped. ‘The city gaol belongs to the council and the Portreeves. I’m only responsible for Rougemont. Though we all know that Stigand is not above forgetting to lock a door, if the price is right!’
De Revelle wheeled his horse around, still glowering at his disappointment … He was about to kick his stallion into a trot, to go back to the city gate, when John reached up to grip one of the reins.
‘Wait a moment, Richard. I have to talk to you.’
‘I’m in no mood for gossip, John. I have a legion of pestilent clerks clamouring for my attention before this damned Eyre.’
‘You’ll listen to this — for the Justices certainly will.’
The mention of the royal visitors sharpened the sheriff’s attention. His sharp face stared down, the pointed beard bristled with impatience.
‘What is it now? Another dead moneylender?’
‘No, a dead whore — but slain by the same priestly hand.’
De Revelle’s forehead creased in puzzlement. ‘How d’you know that? And who was she?’
De Wolfe explained the circumstances quickly, knowing that it was difficult to hold the sheriff’s attention if he had more pressing affairs — especially ones which might affect his purse. But this time the sheriff was intrigued. ‘Joanna of London, you say? A handsome harlot with the striped clothing?’
‘That’s the one — and with flame-coloured hair.’
‘Her hair’s not flame-coloured all over!’ sneered Richard, unable to resist a cynical quip. John wondered how he knew so much about a tavern drab, though being aware of the sheriff’s nocturnal diversions, he could make a good guess.
‘We have to do something about this — and quickly,’ he said. ‘The Justices, especially Walter de Ralegh, are sharp men and they’ll be aware of the latest scandals in the city before they get their boots off. They’ll want some explanations, mainly from you.’
For once de Revelle agreed with his sister’s husband. ‘What do you suggest? If it’s a damned cleric, then the Church should be involved. Your bosom friend the Archdeacon is responsible for parish priests, why not ask him?’
‘I’m seeing him today, but we must get a few more wise heads together to see if we can draw up a list of possible madmen.’
De Revelle shook the rein free of John’s fingers, and as he rode off he jerked a thumb towards Thomas de Peyne, who was setting out his pen and ink on a nearby tree-stump. ‘There’s one for the top of your list,’ he called back over his shoulder.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The three routine hangings passed off without incident, and even the sobs and screams of the close relatives were relatively muted, compared with the hysterical scuffles that often occurred. The small crowd watched impassively, until the moment when the ropes tightened around the helpless necks, when a chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahhs’ and a few jeers were mingled with the wailing of the families. The woman, who had stabbed her husband when she could no longer stand his endless drunken assaults on her, was turned off first, as a measure of compassion so that she would not have to see the agonal jerks and spasms of the other felons.
Sometimes, varying with the habits of the hangman, the felons were pushed off a ladder propped against the beam, but today the cart was in use. Three times it was driven under the gallows beam and a rope dropped over the victim’s neck by the executioner, a part-time butcher from the Shambles. The victim was stood on a board placed high across the back end of the side rails and the butcher smacked the ox’s rump. Well used to the procedure, the burly animal plodded forward sufficiently for the cart to move out from under the condemned, who fell into space and began the macabre jerking and twitching which was usually mercifully shortened by a distraught relative running out and dragging desperately on the legs.
John de Wolfe watched all this impassively, then dictated the details of name and domicile to Thomas, who wrote them on his parchment roll, along with a record of the worldly goods, if any, that were forfeit to the Crown.